


Ficlet and Drabble: Push, Punishment

by starhawk2005



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Ficlet, Het, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:56:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><span class="u">Push</span>: remember that scene in Clueless when House shoves the PotW’s wife against the bathroom stall? Yeah, that. <span class="u">Punishment</span>: Cam entertains thoughts of getting back at House for the whole article!stealing thing. Yeah, this ain’t Nice!Cam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ficlet and Drabble: Push, Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of House, Cam, or any aspect of the show. I just like to entertain dirty fantasies involving them.  
> Beta: None this time. I’m such a rebel.

** Push **

 

It’s so stupid. Why should watching House shove Maria into the front of a bathroom stall cause Allison to feel her breath catching in her throat? Why should watching House loom over their patient’s murderous wife make Allison feel almost…. _jealous_?

 _Fucking pathetic, Alli,_ she tells herself. _House doesn’t want me, doesn’t care._ Never has, never will. It’s all about the puzzle, nothing else. She’s only interesting to him as something to figure out. Like one of his medical cases. And the rest – sex, love, all that shit – that doesn’t even figure into it.

Much later on, she’s sitting at her desk in the conference room, finishing her charting. Foreman and Chase are long gone. The hospital is as close to a ghost town as it ever gets. The connecting door between this room and House’s office is closed, the blinds a visual barricade across the glass wall between them, but his office light seems to be on. She doesn’t know if he’s actually there, although it’s fairly easy to picture him in her mind’s eye, knocking back smugly celebratory shots of scotch with a side-order of a Vicodin or two. Or maybe smoking a cigar on the balcony.

Not that it matters. She rubs at the bridge of her nose, then decides to go splash water on her face and leave. Only an empty apartment to go home to – she won’t let herself think about the last person to have been there (it wasn’t House) – but it can’t be worse than this _pretending_.

She stands in front of the bank of mirrors, water running down her face. She’s blinded, groping for a paper towel to blot the water from her eyelids, when she hears the door of the women’s washroom opening.

The familiar thumping gait registers in her head, and she swears inwardly and searches with newfound determination, at last finding the toweling. Finally able to see, she turns in the direction she last heard him, a little discomfited to find him practically on top of her.

She glares up at him, crushing the toweling into a ball and pegging it into a nearby garbage. Two points, she almost says. Instead, she snarks: “Unless you’ve had a sex-change in the last six hours, House, I’d say you’re in the wrong bathroom.”

He says nothing, just looks down at her with those blue-bladed scalpels that some would call _eyes_. Close enough to touch, but not. Close enough to throw her off-balance.

It only takes a moment or two of the stare-down, before she decides that’s enough for her for one day. She circles to his left, intending to walk out of there.

Before she knows it, she’s been shoved against the bathroom stall partition. Just as he did to Maria earlier. And in this very bathroom, she realizes. And now House is looming over her too, just as he did before. One difference - he’s not gripping her hand. He’s holding both her arms, one large warm hand just above each elbow, his cane discarded and forgotten on the floor.

“You got _aroused_ , didn’t you, Cameron? Watching me earlier. You like it rough.” he says. Gravelly and low. Bare inches from her, breath brushing over her skin. Still staring into her face, her eyes.

She doesn’t want to answer that. She tears her gaze from his, looking straight ahead instead. But that doesn’t help, because she’s nearly face-to-face with his throat, his upper chest. That sexy stubble, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, preparing the next question she won’t want to answer. Rapid pulse fluttering under skin with graying stubble. The collar of a faded band tee-shirt and his usual blazer. No button-down.

She doesn’t want to know these things. Doesn’t want to notice how she was right on both counts, how he smells of both Scotch and cigar smoke.

He shoves her. To the side and backwards, into one of the stalls, shuffling awkwardly in himself. Releases her with one hand, so he can close and lock the door behind them. And then he pulls her right up against him, and turns to pin her between his body and the side of the stall.

He’s kissing her, stubble rasping against her lips. The taste of Scotch and cigars and coffee on the tongue that probes her mouth. Hands still pinning her arms, his crotch pressing hard into her belly.

Her head swims, as if he’s drugged her on the alcohol remaining on his tongue. She whimpers, pushing against him, rubbing her hips against his body.

His mouth burns a path across her cheek, down the side of her neck. Lingering in the hollow of her throat as long fingers work the buttons of her blouse free, delve into the cup of her bra.

A thumb finds her nipple, massaging it, and she gasps, his rough mouth immediately coming back up to hers, silencing her. She tries to touch him, trying to pull his tee-shirt out of his jeans. But he won’t let her, removing his hand from her bra and grabbing her wrist. Pinning it back against the wall, before his hand returns to its earlier ministrations. And she realizes he’s not going to let her touch him. But she doesn’t mind so much.

Similarly, he won’t let her speak. When his mouth makes a journey to taste her other nipple, he silences her answering gasp with his callused palm. Knowing the rules now, she squeezes her eyes shut tight, trying to breathe as quietly as possible as his tongue flickers against her flesh. As his hands undo the fly of her slacks.

Warm fingers find her, toying with her curls. And he stands back up, mouth silencing her again, as he finds the swollen slippery node, nudging against it. She can’t stop herself, her hands coming up to grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him tighter against her, digging her nails into the fabric. But he doesn’t seem to mind this time, doesn’t stop her. Just pushes his tongue past her lips again, mimicking the action of one of his fingers, sliding into her heated depths.

His finger and tongue move in synchrony into her body, his thumb giving a sharp little knock against her clit on every stroke, and she’s getting so close to the edge, she’s so ready to let it overcome her.

But he stops. Pulling back and watching her as she blinks, trying to focus her eyes, order her mind. “Get dressed,” he commands. “We’re taking this elsewhere. Damned leg won’t let me keep this up.”

She nods, no longer capable of speech, doing her clothing back up. He waits until she’s decent, then opens the door and limps heavily out, stooping awkwardly to retrieve his cane from the floor. Then comes back to her, seizing her wrist in an iron grip.

“Ever had sex in the backseat of a Corvette, Allison?” he asks, a hint of the usual snark returning. Still mute, she shakes her head.

“Good, I always did like _virgins_.”

She can’t stop herself – she laughs. But he doesn’t appear to mind, watching her with a predatory, lustful expression on his face. And she supposes that losing their bet wasn’t _all_ bad.

 

 

** Punishment **

 

Allison daydreams about making every last one of them pay. How ironic is it, that everyone thinks she’s so ‘nice’, so innocent and naïve. When she enjoys watching slasher movies, relishing the blood and guts and screams. When she entertains thoughts of punishing all the idiots that surround her at work, in a similar gory fashion.

Like House. She entertains fantasies of spiking his Scotch with a sedative. Or maybe somehow sprinkling something on the next Reuben he makes her bring him. Or switching his Vicodin with something – that would do the trick.

And then somehow getting his unconscious body to her place (she hasn’t worked out the details, but hey, it’s _her_ fantasy, she’ll cut corners when and where and how she pleases, thank you very much). Tying him down on the bed, heedless of any pressure being put on his bad thigh. _It’s all for_ you, _Gregory,_ she imagines laughing at him, as he groans in his drugged state.

She imagines waiting for his mind to clear, for the drugs to lose their hold. So he’ll know _everything_ she does to him.

She turns the images over in her mind like rare gems. Does she tie him face-down, so she can hurt and humiliate him by spanking him for his laziness, for letting Foreman’s article leapfrog hers? Or face up, so she can stimulate him and then _take_ him, perform the female equivalent of rape? She ponders this at length, savouring each fantasy, each option. Choose Your Own Adventure, payback style.

Yes, she decides this time, maybe face-up. In her mind, she’s sure that even if he doesn’t want her to (and who says he doesn’t, really, at _some_ level?), he’s got to be _hungry_ for it. Hungry for sex. So that if she strokes him, if she takes him into her hands and stimulates him, he’ll respond. And then she can use him, make a toy out of him, for pleasure and revenge.

It’s thoughts like these that sustain her, as the men she works with laugh in her face. As House gives her the brush-off.

As she plays her role of ‘that sweet, nice little Cameron’. Seething inside. Maybe they ought to watch it. Maybe she isn’t really as tame and safe as they thought. And maybe she ought to let them find that out.

 


End file.
